


In The Cold, Cold Night

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Multi, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Vampires, gothic horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25830838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: Trickles of fog seep through the limp curtains and hang in the light of the lone candle, and the soft splashes of Jaskier’s bathing ripple in the water. His medallion remains still on his chest, but he still feels watched, something predatory enough to register as a threat to a Witcher.Something is hunting Jaskier... something he is powerless to resist.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 24
Kudos: 74





	1. On The Edge of a Burning Light

Geralt already accepted the contract, so there’s no way out of it now. Their reception has been worse in other places, brandished pitchforks or hurled rocks, but something here sets his hindbrain tingling, some slight whiff of danger that keeps him alert.

The only reason they are here is a woman in the last village, asking for news of her husband, who’d gone to market the week before and not returned. Geralt had privately thought that he’d just left, but after copious tears from the woman, and Jaskier turning pleading eyes on him as well, had given in and pledged to do what he could. If the man had gone astray of his own free will, he’d return and tell her so. If not, then he could track him down. Geralt had needed some work done on his armour, and Jaskier got itchy if he didn’t get to perform often enough, so they’d been headed this way anyway.

The town is stale. Fog drapes itself over every corner, and lanterns only illuminate the gloom. The people themselves are…harried. Not many of the passers-by make eye contact with them, but the inn Jaskier manages to find looks warm and inviting enough. There’s still something in the air he doesn’t like. Geralt rushes them into the inn, some half-formed urge to get them out of the darkness whistling through his mind, stabling Roach as quickly as he dares, though Jaskier tries to drag his feet and even stops to give a beggar-girl some of his coin.

The laughter he hears is sharper than usual, and what could be dismissed as idle glances linger too long for comfort. 

Jaskier does not seem to notice the atmosphere in the inn at first, beaming and peacocking as he normally would. He sings for their supper, dancing steps taking him all over the tavern, and Geralt watches, fists clenched, as he is pulled onto some brute’s lap, laughing as he finishes his encore.

Dozens of pairs of dark eyes follow the bard’s every movement, and he can scent the lust stirring in the air with every sway of his hips. They stare too long, heads cocked. Not all of them, but at least one on every table, unnaturally still and heads turning in just the same motion, at exactly the same time. The effect is horribly disturbing once Geralt spots the pattern. 

Jaskier untangles himself from his admirers gracefully, and makes his way over to Geralt, settling on the bench beside him, pressing their sides together. He can feel the heat rising off that lithe body, the scent of his post-performance bliss stained with a little fear. Their eyes meet, and no words are necessary. Geralt wraps an arm around his waist, and Jaskier tucks his head closer to Geralt, curled up against him, looking for all the world like a lover’s embrace. He grazes his lips over Jaskier’s ear and whispers as quietly as he dares, ‘Not here.’ 

He can feel the gazes upon them, and he lets his hand stroke the inch of soft skin he can reach under Jaskier’s doublet as a comfort. They watch, men, women, all perfectly ordinary looking, different heights and shapes and sizes, all dressed differently, but all with their eyes on Jaskier. 

They finish their ales slowly, pretending they have not noticed. Jaskier keeps up a little patter of nonsense, babbling about the food and the weather, and Geralt glares out across the room, staring down as many of them as he can, every inch the possessive lover. Jaskier gazes up at him, smiling softly and blushing, performing his admiration, and only Geralt can hear the too-fast beating of his heart. They linger downstairs until Geralt has had enough and takes Jaskier’s hand in his, tugging him up gently and nudging him to walk upstairs. His hand is curled, ready to fire Aard in a heartbeat, and the other is free to grab his sword. He walks not half an inch behind Jaskier, wanting to press him closer and keep him safe, but unwilling to give anyone a chance to slip his guard. 

They reach the rooms, and Geralt whisks Jaskier inside and locks the door, checking the window is open if they need another exit, moving in a blur of speed and scenting the room for traps. Jaskier stands, arms around himself for comfort, and watches Geralt secure the room patiently.

‘What- ‘, He begins, but Geralt hushes him with a hand over his mouth. He waits, and listens. Jaskier’s ragged breathing, and footsteps on the stairs. At least three of them, and the light from the hallway flickers as their shadows reach the door. Jaskier stares up at him, eyes wide with fear. He gasps for breath, and Geralt takes his hand away quickly so he can fill his lungs. The shadows at the door make no move to knock; the door handle does not turn; they do not force it open. They just stand there. 

Geralt slowly pushes Jaskier toward the back wall and draws his sword as quietly as he can manage, a hushed metallic scrape the only sound in the room save Jaskier’s heartbeat. Downstairs, the tavern is still rowdy, cackles of laughter seeping up through the floors.

The shadows still stand at the door, and Geralt slinks closer. Three slow heartbeats, no strange scents that he can detect. He crouches slowly, debating the risk. He is still faster off the ground than three humans, and he wants to see them. Geralt brings his eye to the keyhole, and blinks into focus. Nothing there save the ugly wall of the hallway. 

He glances down, but he can still see the shadows under the door. Slowly, he leans forward again. Inky darkness, as though something is covering the keyhole. Only inches away from his face, the other side of the thin wooden door.

Jaskier is safe behind him, gripping his dagger tightly, and he allows himself one more breath. 

Geralt explodes into motion. He snaps the door open with a bang, sword raised, and fire burning in his palm.

Three young maids stand there, suddenly chattering away, filling the hallway with noise and holding pails of water. Their shadows are of a normal length, and they ignore his drawn weapon and bared teeth. 

‘We brought water, sir, for your bath!’ says one, and the other two nod slowly in agreement. Their eyes remain fixed on Jaskier, hidden though he is behind Geralt’s bulk. Like hell are they coming in the room.

‘Leave it outside.’ He growls, and they curtsey stiffly with too sharp smiles. They leave the water though, and he hauls it in after they flutter back off down the stairs. He slams the door again and locks it once more. Jaskier deflates with a long sigh, and Geralt strides over to him, standing too close but barely able to resist wrapping him up in his arms. He settles for placing his hands on Jaskier’s hips, pressing his nose to Jaskier’s hair and scenting him, warm and trembling in Geralt’s hold. He only dares a whispered ‘Are you alright?’

Jaskier presses his forehead to Geralt’s chest and whispers back, ‘Yes, what’s going on?’

He just shakes his head. This is nothing he has ever seen before. There is definitely a contract worth taking here. He cannot risk them leaving in the darkness, under those watchful stares, with whatever danger he can sense prickling so fervently, much as he wants to see Jaskier safe. They will have to stay at least for the night.

Jaskier sighs again, and slumps against him. They stand still together for long minutes, calming down, until Jaskier pulls his shoulders back up, and corrects his expression once more. He starts another monologue, chatter just to fill the air, and Geralt nods. His eyes are still wider and more panicked than he would like, but his heartbeat has slowed.

Geralt fetches the water. It is ice cold when he tests it, and he sniffs it suspiciously, but it is untouched. He heats the bath with Igni, and hovers protectively as Jaskier slips in, unwilling to lower his guard for a moment in case the bard disappears while his back is turned. 

He checks the room again before they settle in. He locked the door himself, but the window remains open as a last resort. Trickles of fog seep through the limp curtains and hang in the light of the lone candle, and the soft splashes of Jaskier’s bathing ripple in the water. His medallion remains still on his chest, but he still feels watched, something predatory enough to register as a threat to a Witcher. 

Geralt cannot sense anyone out in the corridor and the sounds from the inn are what he’d expect, ordinary chatter and drunken laughter.  
He steps closer to the window and listens, but the town is hushed still, a few lanterns visible in a pool of dark. No moon visible, and no strange scents to give him direction. 

Jaskier finishes up and dries off briskly, skin a dewy gold in the dim light. Geralt watches him, unsettled. He pulls his chemise back on, clinging to his still damp-skin and tucks himself into the bed, his dagger placed beneath his pillow, and he gazes up at Geralt with soft blue eyes. Geralt lets out one huff of air and pulls a chair over to the door, jamming it under the doorknob. 

He strips off his armour in quick efficient motions, keeping his shirt and trousers on, and places his silver sword, unsheathed, against the bed where he might reach for it easily. Geralt settles on top of the covers, resting against the headboard. Jaskier throws an arm across his thighs and Geralt lets his hand drop into Jaskier’s hair, stroking as gently as he dares while Jaskier’s eyes close. He watches the door, content to be on guard for the rest of the night. 

Jaskier keeps his eyes shut tight, but he does not fall sleep for hours.


	2. Brief Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my endless gratitude to dourhorsing, without whom there would be no fic!  
> my sweetest tisses to llama and ddandelions, for being awake when i needed assistance <3

The night wears on, and Geralt keeps his watch. At the very moment before the sky lightens, the single breath where the dark is deepest, the relentless pressure of being watched redoubles sharply. His skin crawls, and Jaskier’s sweet steady breathing judders to a halt, even as he sleeps. Geralt freezes, caught and cowering, as feeble as the field mouse when the owl’s wings pass overhead. Some vast malevolence regards them, deliberate and cruel, and then fades as the daylight dawns. It is not often that Geralt feels hunted, and terror is something that was carved out of him long ago, but even this dim echo of it sets his hands to trembling faintly. 

Jaskier breathes once more, easy and deep, and Geralt cannot help but stare down at him, handsome face relaxed in sleep, and tries to work out how best to keep him safe. Whatever monster is out there, whatever drew so many gazes the bard’s way, it is nothing he has encountered before. 

The sun rises truly, and all traces of their watcher dissipate, until it might be any other morning, in any other inn, the cold fear dim and hazy when he tries to recall it in the warmth of the dawn.

Jaskier stirs, and blinks awake, smiling up at him, his expression unguarded and open. Geralt climbs off the bed quickly, before he betrays himself further, and pulls his armour back on piece by piece.

The bard sits up and waggles his eyebrows meaningfully until Geralt snorts.

‘Yes, we can talk now.’

‘Oh, thank the gods. What was that all about?’

‘Something I’ve never seen before.’

‘I didn’t like it, that’s for sure. What’s the plan now then?’

‘Plan?’

‘Well you usually just down a few potions and charge in merrily, but if it’s something you haven’t seen before I figured you’d have a plan, at least.’

‘Ask some questions.’

‘A good start. And what do you want me to do?’

‘You should go. Take Roach, ride back to the last village in the daylight, and I’ll meet you there.’

‘Oh yes, excellent idea Geralt, I’ll just go, all by myself, back through the forest, where anyone might snatch me up.’

‘Jaskier I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know how…how to keep you safe.’

‘I’ll stay close. I promise.’

Geralt pauses and rubs his hand at the back of his neck, sheepish.

‘I think…it might be best if we keep up the pretence.’

‘You mean you’re going to play the big strong Witcher and growl at anyone who gets too close to me?’

‘If it stops them looking at you.’

Jaskier snorts and slides off the bed. ‘If you insist, darling.’ He says, saccharine-sweet, and flutters his eyelashes. ‘It might backfire on you though.’

‘Why’s that?’ Geralt says.

And with that Jaskier turns and glances over his shoulder, pinning him in place while nimble fingers untie the laces of his shirt. 

‘People tend to want what they can’t have.’ He strips off casually, all golden skin and lush warmth, and Geralt has to flee to his pack and pretend to be looking for something while he calms down. 

They head down through the inn together, and the difference is remarkable. No stares linger any more than usual, and Geralt finds himself trying to remember how often people usually look at Jaskier, before giving it up as a lost cause. Jaskier laces their hands together and drags him out into the sunshine, babbling about visiting the market. He sighs in pretended exasperation but follows willingly enough. 

Vengerberg seems harmless enough in daylight, cobbled streets and shaded courtyards where early tavern drinkers spill out to enjoy the slight breeze. Even he can appreciate how different it looks compared to the endless backwaters they trudge through, streets filled with people wearing fine clothes and greeting each other cheerfully.

Jaskier tucks himself into Geralt’s side and puts his hand in the crook of Geralt’s elbow, as though the Witcher is escorting him like some simpering noblewoman. He chatters easily, and leads them a merry dance from stall to stall. Geralt eyes the people passing, but everyone looks normal. Jaskier even strikes up a conversation with a portly woman Geralt recognises from the previous night as being one of the watchers, and he glares fiercely in her direction, but no scent of fear betrays her. She acts perfectly ordinarily, and gives Jaskier directions to the bakers, with no strange movements or lingering stares at all.

Geralt tries to concentrate on the potential danger, listening for any mentions of the bard’s name in the buzz of people around them, but Jaskier is making things difficult. He begs leave to fetch Geralt breakfast, and kisses his cheek quickly before he leaves, and Geralt stands not ten feet away and watches him dizzily as he charms the grumpy looking baker into laughing at one of his jokes. 

Jaskier returns triumphant, bearing two sweet honeycakes proudly, and steps into Geralt’s arms, staring up at him with the most besotted gaze Geralt has ever seen him wear. 

‘You’re pushing it.’ He grinds out, unable to stop himself holding Jaskier firmly in place with his hands on those slim hips.

‘You asked for it! The full Jaskier experience, all yours.’

Geralt tips his chin up and growls ‘You are distracting me.’

And heavens help him, Jaskier blushes. 

…

Jaskier relents then, feeling not a little caught out. He lets his mouth go on without him, every inch the excitable bard, paying no attention to what he is saying, and letting his eyes dart around the streets. It looks lovely in the daylight, an obviously prosperous town, and his eyes trail up to the castle sitting proudly on the hill. He racks his brain, trying to remember anything he has heard about Vengerburg in his travels, but nothing comes to mind. An old family, as all families are, with no recent scandals titillating enough for his notice.

A few coaches roll past as they walk, and he makes a mental note of each of their coats of arms, all with the crow affronté somewhere on the shield, which looks terribly old-fashioned to his Redanian tastes. A particularly richly attired set of horses trot past, drawing his attention, and the coach is grander than any he has spotted thus far.

It draws to a halt some twenty paces away, and he turns as if bewitched. Jaskier cannot explain it, but something slows his steps.

The footman silently glide into place, and the most stunning women he has ever seen in his life steps gracefully down onto the street. She wears a beautiful lace dress, so white and crisp in the heat of the morning that he feels shabby in his second-best doublet. Geralt turns towards her as well, and squeezes his hand tightly, reminding him of their pretence, but he cannot look away, as though something calls him. She steps daintily beneath an upturned parasol, and he catches a tiny glimpse of her crimson painted smile. Longing stirs, just to see her face truly, so that he might remember it in his dreams. 

She raises her hand to point something out to one of her escorts, and a flash of silver flies from her gloved hand. Jaskier darts forward without thinking, abandoning Geralt, and chases it some paces down the road even as she lets out a musical cry and does the same. 

He makes a triumphant snatch for what turns out to be a little silver ring, just before it bounces too far, and turns just in time to catch the lady as she stumbles. His hand grips her thigh as she falls into his arms, long dark hair a waterfall of gentle perfume over one bared shoulder, and he stutters his excuses as she giggles at the upset. 

She meets his gaze boldly, and Jaskier stops talking mid-word, caught. He cannot breathe, he cannot move a muscle, everything else in the world fades from his mind. One look at those dark violet eyes, and Jaskier is lost, lost, lost.

Her beauty is beyond even a poet’s words, and the only reason he knows he is not dreaming is that he could never have dreamt anyone half so fair as her. She smiles up at him, all fresh white innocence against the dark promise of those lips, and the barest scrap of propriety stirs as he valiantly tries to regain his senses.

His hand slides down her soft dress as he sets the lady gently upright again and a shudder of lust engulfs him. Her merry smile fades, plush lips parting, and they stand as close as lovers, alone on a busy street, swaying towards each other helplessly not moments after meeting.

His breath is shallow, and he wants her so badly he aches with it; the whole world a dim candle to the inferno of her eyes. 

She takes pity on him then, his merciful lady, and glances down demurely, reaching out towards him.

He bows deeply over her outstretched hand and presses his lips to her silk glove. Jaskier presents the ring formally, and she catches him again in that piercing gaze even as he slides it back onto her elegant fingers. 

She curtsies stylishly, in the old fashion, and Jaskier cannot take his eyes off her when she looks up at him once more.

‘Jaskier, Viscount de Lettenhove,’ he manages, somewhat croakily, ‘at your service my lady.’

‘Yennefer, of Vengerburg. I must offer you my thanks for your aid. This keepsake is precious to me, and I would be lost without it. I do appreciate you returning it.’ Her voice is soft and hypnotic, and her kind smile helps him regain some of his senses, the warmth of her regard filling him with confidence once more.

‘Anything, my lady. If there is some small service a humble bard such as myself might perform to assist you, then you need only ask.’

She steps a little closer, and her attention is beguiling. ‘You have already come to my aid once, saving me from a perilous fall, and then returning my ring to me. Might I beg of you one more favour?’

‘Name it and it is yours. I will fetch the stars themselves if they would please the Lady Yennefer.’

‘Would you accompany me to court this evening? News of the famous Jaskier has reached even our little town, and I should dearly love to see you perform.’ 

‘You flatter me, my lady. I- ‘ 

An elbow digs into his ribs, and the world roars back to life in his ears. Geralt is standing next to them, casting suspicious glances at the Lady Yennefer, and glowering fit to burst. He hadn’t even noticed his approach. Jaskier shakes his head a little, blinking in the brightness of the sunlight and how loud the crowds seem compared to her soft voice. He steps back slightly, regaining a more respectable distance, and Lady Yennefer looks almost disappointed.

‘Won’t you introduce me to your companion?’

‘Ah, yes, my lady, this is Geralt of Rivia.’ The dizziness does not dissipate even as he tries to remember his usual spiel. ‘The White Wolf, mighty Witcher, defeater of evil, slayer of monsters, et cetera, et cetera.’ 

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ She says and bobs a polite curtsey in his direction. Her smile seems several degrees colder when she looks at Geralt, who just stares down at her rather rudely, even for him.

She turns back to Jaskier, and those enchanting eyes capture him again even as Geralt steps close behind him and wraps one huge arm around his waist possessively.

‘Would you do me the honour, my lord?’ 

The acceptance falls from his lips before he even thinks about it, and he barely feels Geralt’s hand tighten in warning as he tries to step closer to her again, heart and body and soul aching.

The arrangements are made, but he barely catches them, and they both speak, but he cannot recall what he said. Lady Yennefer holds his gaze, and his heart, and he is drawn to her like a moth to a flame, their mouths making idle conversation that neither hear as violet eyes reforge him anew. 

She turns to depart, and Jaskier breaks free of Geralt’s firm hold to catch her hand one last time and presses a kiss to the silver ring that brought them together. She graces him with one more smile and leaves him, a whirl of fresh white lace immediately torn from his sight by the bulk of her servants.

He sighs after her, lovestruck, mind already whirring with inspiration, and Geralt startles him out of it with a rather grumpy sounding ‘Hmm.’

‘Wasn’t she something?’ He says, humming a rather nice little topline, notes stringing themselves easy as pearls to a new melody. 

‘You’re supposed to be helping. And you’re supposed to be here with me.’

The dream fades away, and he recovers his composure admirably, twining his arms around Geralt’s neck and pouting. ‘I’ve been neglecting you terribly, haven’t I darling?’

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him coolly. ‘I would fetch the stars themselves…?’

Jaskier jabs him in the side, where his armour leaves a little vulnerable gap near his ribs. ‘Shut up.’

‘At least you didn’t try to give her bread you kept in your trousers.’

‘Fuck off,’ he hisses, puffing up like an indignant cat, ‘you know how I get around the pretty ones.’

Both the Witcher’s eyebrows fly up then, and he looks very smug. ‘The pretty ones?’

‘Gods.’ Jaskier rolls his eyes in exasperation, but his blush betrays him. ‘Come on, _darling_ , let’s do some more shopping, hmm?’

He pats Geralt’s bottom cheekily, for luck, and skips to the next stall, already half-planning his set, and half caught in daydreams of violet and white lace.

Geralt follows him and completely fails to hide his pleased little grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the geralt and jaskier living rent-free in my head demanded the pretend relationship, and i actually had very little to do with it?)
> 
> ((also yes i am reusing snippets of my own work, because i am a bear of very little brain))


End file.
